1. I feel fat. Please note that there is very little you can say to combat this. Your compliments about my stellar body and superior mind are antibiotics fighting against a viral fit of irrational self-loathing. In fact, the superfluous and entirely useless application of your flattering words at this moment is doing nothing except rendering your compliments less effective for future usage against the infections of insecurity they are meant to combat. In other words, just shut up and I’ll let you know when I’m not ugly anymore.
2. You’re leaving in the next 15 minutes. And as enticing as I find your saucy promise that “that’s all the time you need,” I think I’ll hold out until you have time to do it right. Additional note: You just played Words With Friends for 40 minutes and then hastily suggested sex like it’s what you’ve been meaning to do it all along. Boyfriend, you just procrastinated enjoyment of my body. Come back when you want it more.
3. The cat is on the bed and furthermore is looking at me. The fact that this doesn’t bother you bothers me.
4. Farts. Actually, we’ve been needing to talk about this. Baby, is there something wrong with your ass? No, really, is there something, like, medically wrong? I’m not one of those girls who pretends that they don’t pass gas (well, I am, but I’m lying. Because we live together now and you’re going to see all the unflattering aspects of my living style that, in earlier stages of our relationship, I would spend many hours trying to cover up, not because I didn’t want to, like, let you in or whatever, but for ROMANCE. For romance, you jackass. And so yes, to retain a little of the “Oh, she’s so dreeaaamy” look you used to have for me, I lie and pretend I don’t fart. But I do and now you know and I hate you for making me talk about this.) But it’s not like you. You, my sweet love, are capable of making whole rooms — nay, whole apartments — smell like a Federline laundry hamper at fat camp. I love you, I accept you and the mysteriously offensive things your male body does. Like the sage Jessica Simpson once asked Nick Lachey to do for her, I will continue to love your “smelly ass.” But I might not always let you tap mine.
5. I need to fart and I’m afraid if you try to sex me right now, you’ll jostle it out of me and we will never, ever be able to copulate again because all either of us will be able to think about is that time I farted during sex. Naturally, I would rather you think that I am simply uninterested in getting my boom on because no matter where we’re at in our relationship, I will always adamantly and illogically believe that if you are ever aware that I have air bubbles inside of me, you won’t want to be. So I’m going to now go into the other room for a short period of time to do some indiscriminate activity and we can have sex when I get back. As long as you don’t say anything or even look at me in a way that suggests you suspect I went out of the room to fart.
6. We just watched an episode of Mad Men and I’m convinced you’ll be mind-banging Christina Hendricks. We can have sex again when my boobs get that big and/ or I tell you I read somewhere that she has an incurable case of VD (this will be a lie; I’m sure that magnificent bitch’s vagina is immaculate.)
7. I’m planning to surprise you with a world-ending blowjob later. You have no idea how good this blow-jay is going to be. Like, your face is going to melt off, fall into your gaping mouth, work its way down your fevered body and shoot out of your dick just so you can have something additional to ejaculate because the blowjob you are about to receive in mere moments is just that good. I’ve been planning it all along. If we do sex stuff right now, then I’m going to look less put together, you won’t be as excited, and your penis is going to taste like hours-old sex, which means I won’t be as excited either.*
*This may or may not be true, but it does buy me more time to stop feeling fat, crack a window, turn the TV from Mad Men to a soccer game and find the cat something else to do.